


Respect The Skirt

by SirKai



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bar Room Brawl, Drinking, Implied Relationships, M/M, Police, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt for the Secret Santa 2011 event on TF2chan. A bit of a ship-story of how Demoman and Soldier meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect The Skirt

It weren’t the friendliest meetin’, what with the two of us arguin’ about the proper ingredients fer a propelled grenade (‘nails an’ pellets’ he says), and I leave him a right good glare as I’m stomping me way from the booth. Only so much hard headed nonsense I can take, but damn me if the helmeted special case didn’t have a spark to him. 

Expo was a bloody sham anyway. Waste a’ money.

So that night I visit meself a pub on the waterfront. Packed as all hell on those bleedin’ Friday nights. I squeeze onto a stool at the bar and find meself rubbin’ shoulders with the same crazy numpty I was clashin’ words with earlier. The fella’s damn near elbow deep in those ribs a’ his, and lemme tell ya does he _love_ ribs.

The sod’s got about the grumpiest pout I ever seen. The pretty dark-haired lass workin’ the counter ain’t got herself much appreciation for it. She sneers at him when she walks by, and the helmet boyo is outta ribs and down to lickin’ the sauce off his fingers. He looks like he’s itchin’ to leap the bar counter and get her face real acquainted with a pair of his knuckles, so I give him a nudge and decide to show him how it’s done.

“You!? I do not need any help from a dress wearing menace!” he shouts. A few folks turn their heads, but I keep me yammer shut long enough for ‘em to just go back to their drinks and finger food.

“Lad, ya best not be talkin’ about me finest kilt.” I like to wear me kilt when I go drinkin’. The crowds in bars don’t tend to give me any funny looks. “Now, jus’ keep that greasy trap a’ yers’ shut an’ I’ll show you how to be at least a wee bit of a gentleman.” I decide to give him a wink. Scottish charm can be pretty darn contagious.

I wave the bar lass down and order a couple glasses of adelphi malt, and refill the lad’s dripping basket a’ ribs. I tell the boyo ya can’t be in a Scot’s company without honorin’ the goodness of his homeland least a bit, specially after you insult his own fancy dress wear. 

The lass takes me menu with a wide smile. The eye patch and accent always do ‘em in. 

The boy grumbles a bit to himself and folds his arms like a school boy, and I give meself a soft chuckle. It’s almost cute in a weird kinna way. 

Then it ain’t long before the food and drink arrive and he’s guzzling everything down like a goddamn disposal, with the sternest sauce-spattered smile I’ve ever seen. That face has spent years cookin’ on the battlefield. A bloody shame that helmet covers his eyes.

“You’re alright cyclops!” he admits, slammin’ an empty glass on the counter. “Y’know, for a skirt-wearer.”

“Oi! It ain’t a bleedin’ skirt, ya windbag.” I wag my finger at him, tryin’ to be intimidating. The alcohol might’ve already seen to that, though. “Ye don’t wanna make me cross, lad.”

Then the helmet boyo leans in real close with that smile no where ta’ be seen. “And why is that, skirt-twirler?”

An’ before me swimmin’ head could think of what to say, I was feeling the side of his face hitting a set of me knuckles. Actually, might be the other way around now that I think of it...

“Oohhh is that how it’s gonna be, skirt-trash? You just tempered the wrong falcon, sally!”

The lad reels his arm back, and not a blurry moment later, I’m leaning against the counter, nursing a bruising cheek with me palm. I stand back up to face the wise ass. People are starin’ and startin’ to crowd around. Let ‘em watch, I say.

And oh me sweet mother, do they watch. It’s all a flurry of punches and kicks and grabs and headlocks, with me head ringing like a church bell, an’ me gut sorer than a call girl’s fanny, an’ by all that’s holy, this lad hits like a mule’s hooves. 

I manage to get meself a fist full of shirt and aim my knee for his face, but somewhere ‘tween all the drinking and all the hitting, that’s become easier said than done. I end up kneeing him in the neck. The helmet lad stumbles back and cradles his throat.

“Ow! You savage Scot bastard!”

The bastard thrusts his head forward, and damn do I expect ten poor spots of me face will be swollen up tomorrow mornin’ thanks to that helmet of his.

“Done yet, you bleeding son of a bitch!?”

“Yer... yer bleedin’ too...” Huh. Seems like speakin’ coherently is getting right tough too...

The helmet lad wipes the back of his across his mouth, and I swear he’s wipin’ off more barbecue sauce than blood. Everyone in the crowd is still actin’ real frosty, ‘cept for that uniformed man wavin’ his stick about-

“Do not interrupt MY fight! Get some manners, momma’s boy!”

An’ just like that, the helmet lad laid that poor boaby across the floor, having him whinin’ about a broken nose.

The helmet case shakes an’ flexes his hand after the strike. “Any other _naysayers_ wanna get in on MY battlefield?”

An’ then there’s a couple of flashing blue and red lights through the windows of the pub. Goddamn that’s obnoxious, why in the bleedin’ hell would-

...oh.

“Oi, lad, Ah think we uh...” I scoop the bottle of whiskey from the counter and dump the deluge down me throat. The burn helps a bit. “Ah think we got ourselves in a pint size a’ trouble.”

“HAH! These baton-swinging sissies haven’t even MET trou- GAH stop beating with that baton!”

The bloody polis were all over the poor helmet case, clingin’ those sticks against him like they were tryin’ to put down some infested leper. I throw myself at the sods, and I can barely keep track of who or what I’m hitting. Suddenly I’m being pelted with so many hunks a’ metal I feel like I’m being used to test hammers. 

I drift in and out on consciousness, barely comprehending the beatings, then the cuffs on me wrists, then the jail cell door slamming shut. By the time I’m voluntarily wrenching my eyes open, it feel like weeks have passed, and the ceiling light is way too fuckin’ bright. Like I need anymore of a solid headache. Feels like a building is collapsin' behind me eyeballs. I squeeze my eyes closed. Thank all that’s holy that I got my head such a good cushion...

“You’re damn lucky I like you, cyclops,” the helmet case said. There might’ve been a wee bit a’ venom in the words, but he didn’t move. He does have one helluva a spark to him, don’t he?

Ah keep me head resting against his shoulder, an’ scooch across the bench jus’ a bit closer to him.

“Ah love you too, lad.”


End file.
